


I Could Do with a Good Word

by stardust_made



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (if you squint), Angst, Gen, Pining, Pre-Slash, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 18:30:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the events in the episode 'The End' Dean asks Castiel to do something for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Could Do with a Good Word

**Author's Note:**

> My foray into _Supernatural_ fic, I'm excited!:)
> 
> A couple of warnings: firstly, beware of spoilers up to mid-season five. Also, like it says in the tags, although I did write this as a one-shot on brotherly love, I think it might be ambiguous enough to be read as a Wincest pre-slash so I thought I should say.

Dean shuts the door on his way out as quietly as he would if he had a reason to be guilty.  
  
Which he doesn’t.  
  
Cas is waiting for him already. His face looks impassive on the side of mildly interested.  
  
“I need you to do something for me,” Dean says. He hunches when he hears how rough he sounds. Cas hears it, too; if angels know anything about humans Dean hopes this alone will save him the need for explanations. He fears he’ll fail big time trying that one. _I miss my brother_ won’t quite cut it, what with Sam being asleep back at the motel.  
  
“I need you to take me back in time,” Dean says when Cas just looks at him, silent. “You can do that, right?”  
  
“You know that certain events cannot be changed. The past must remain what—”  
  
“No, no, I don’t mean for something like that,” Dean interrupts. So much for angels getting it on intuition. He forgot they were all about the big picture. “I’m not going to try and…undo whatever’s done. Hell, I wouldn’t even know where to start!” He feels his face contort with bitter irony. “No. No changes, no messing around with the order of things. I just…I just want to see Sam.”  
  
Cas’s face grows serious.  
  
“You can’t warn him, Dean.”  
  
“Damn it, I don’t want to warn anyone about anything!” Things are really catching up with him if he’s losing his temper so quickly. Well, yeah, they are. Being here at all, asking what he is—that’s way more of a sign than trying to bite people’s heads off.  
  
He tries again, despite Cas’s evident lack of offence.  
  
“I don’t want to do anything, all right. I just want to see him before—”  
  
Dean stumbles; of course he does. He’s really not eager to have a heart to heart, but he may have to give Cas a bit more than frustrated growls. He sighs.  
  
“Look, all I want to do is sit down with him for just a moment, that’s all. It’s been really freaking crazy lately, and it’s been bad, real bad. And I don’t mean the Apocalypse or the whole mighty dicks wanting to pop into our bodies and waste each other. It’s been—it’s been bad between us, between me and Sam.” He has to stop and get a grip. Cas is looking at him, unblinking; Dean realizes that he is listening to him. That, and the distant rustle of the wind in the near-by solitary copse unwind something in him.  
  
“I miss him, Cas. I miss…I don’t know, trusting him. Caring about him the way I used to. And I know it was all messed up, Sam said to me that he—The whole thing he and I had was messed up, all right, I know that now. I mean we kind of pushed the boundaries of a healthy relationship _a lot_. And maybe that’s what probably brought us here in the first place, but I just—I gotta see him, you know? I look at him now, and I can’t take it anymo—”  
  
Oh, great.  
  
He gulps carefully. “When things were still okay—I have this feeling that it’s going to get a lot worse, and I need to see him when we were okay, when he was still my little brother.”  
  
“Do you want me to take you back to when he was a child? Because it will be very difficult to do that and it will come at a price.”  
  
Dean has thought about it. He has a retina imprint of Sam in a white suit in a very private corner of his mind, so he knows what he needs.  
  
“No. Just a few years back. When we were on the road, just the two of us, hunting. Before his visions started, and all that psychic crap.”  
  
Cas says nothing for a few long seconds, studying him.  
  
"This is important to you," he says at last. "I may be able to do it,"  
  
Dean lets out the breath he's been holding. "Great," he says. "Let's go, come on."  
  
Cas doesn't move. A small line appears between his eyebrows.  
  
“Are you all right, Dean?”  
  
Dean bites his bottom lip, looks up to the dark, washed out sky, looks over Cas’s shoulder, then at his face.  
  
“No,” he says.  
  
***  
  
Dean watches himself sneak out of the motel room and is once more stricken by the difference—this is what he used to look like when he left quietly, simply because he didn’t want to wake up Sammy. He waits for the lights of the Impala to disappear down the road, counts to sixty, then goes in.  
  
He remembers the place. They’d crashed here more than once or twice over the years, with or without Dad, so by their standards this must be like what a holiday home feels to normal people. His eyes fall on Sam’s sleeping form immediately: on his back, face turned to the window and Dean’s bed, right hand splayed on top of his rising and falling chest. Dean sits on the empty bed, less than a foot away.  
  
Sam looks like Sam. There’s nothing different, really, apart from his hair maybe, but that’s if you’re looking real close. If Dean hadn’t stared at his brother’s sleeping face for a whole minute before he left earlier, he could try to trick himself, search for some phantoms: less lines, something innocent in the line of Sam’s jaw, whatever. He did stare at Sam, though, so he knows there’s nothing to be found. This is what Sam looks like when he’s deeply asleep. Worse; Dean is sure that against all logic this would be what nine-year-old Sammy would look like deeply asleep.  
  
His throat tightens already— _son of a bitch_ , that was fast. He takes a deep breath then reaches out and flicks the bedside lamp on.  
  
Sam doesn’t move. Only his brow furrows lightly.  
  
Dean takes in his face. Watching Sam. That’s all he seems to be doing these days, but the joke’s on him. Because even when he _can_ let go, when he’s finally got a goddamn minute for himself, here he is still doing it.  
  
His eyes fall on the frayed rim along the top of Sam’s worn-out t-shirt. Something jumps in Dean’s chest. It’s his t-shirt, not Sam’s, yet Sammy’s wearing it. Dean bought the t-shirt in Iowa, in that crazy shop with the purple walls. He and Sam don’t swap clothes all that often, even back then—or is it now?—whatever this is. Sam grew wider in the chest within six months after they started searching for Dad. He was already taller, but he grew wider. Big. Shaped up differently. He keeps doing it. He’s still lean, though. There’s nothing about Sam that has ever been…crude.  
  
Dean’s head hangs between his shoulders. That’s what watching people sleep does to you. Makes you soft in the head, and you start thinking about words like ‘crude’.  
  
He lifts his eyes and taps Sam on the stomach. “Sammy.”  
  
No response. Dean does it again, harder this time. “Sammy.”  
  
Sam’s hand twitches and slides over Dean’s, traps his fingers for a second—the bastard’s got bigger hands, too. Dean pulls his hand out and pats Sam on the arm where the t-shirt sleeve has twisted a bit. “Hey, Sam. Sammy.”  
  
Sam’s eyelids tremble and open heavily. Dean watches his brother’s eyes start the journey from that peaceful place from which Dean’s so damn nice to drag him out, then arrive to awareness. On the slow train.  
  
Sam doesn’t wake up like that anymore. He is full-on, ragingly back-to-reality in a matter of a split second, without even shifting in his place. Dean can sense it sometimes, all the way from his own bed. No more dwelling at the gates between heaven and earth for Sam.  
  
“Dean? What’s wrong?” An anxious lilt to the end of the question, made noticeable by Sam's drowsy voice.  
  
“Nothing, ’s all good.” Dean hurries to say. Sam’s face smoothes. Dean’s lips twitch—a tiny, gut-wrenching little thing, and he’s glad the light isn’t falling on his face. “Hey, Sammy.”  
  
Sam squints and weakly props himself up. “Hey?” He tilts his head, bewildered, but says nothing, waits Dean out. For all his damnable love of talking, Sam knows how to be quiet. Dean feels his stupid eyes prickling again. He clears his throat and puts on his mischievous face.  
  
“Hey, listen,” he says conspiratorially. He might have to go with a naughty story here. He hasn’t thought this through as far as this. He didn’t even really hope that Cas would agree to bring him here. But Dean’s nothing if not great with improvisation. Besides, in his heart he knows what he is after. He may not have a plan, but he knows why he’s here.  
  
Sam’s already sharper. Pure reflex, that. Dean says ‘Listen’ and Sammy’s ears perk up.  
  
“I’m heading out,” Dean says, “but I wanted to tell you something.”  
  
Sam’s quiet for a few moments, then asks, “What?” He buries his right hand into his hair and combs it back, as if it’s obstructing his view to Dean.  
  
“Um…the amulet you gave me,” Dean says, fingers automatically going to the metal to touch it.  
  
“Yeah, what about it?”  
  
“You know how much I love it, you know it’s always with me, right? And it’s my—it’s like I’m naked without it?”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam says slowly, blinks twice in quick succession, still chasing sleep away.  
  
“I’ve been doing some thinking, and you’ve probably figured you’ll get the Impala and all my cool stuff, but I wanted you to—If anything goes wrong, I want you to wear it, okay? Will you do that for me?”  
  
Sam’s almost half-sitting now, resting on his elbows. He peers at Dean, frowning, _no, no, that’s not it, don’t frown, Sammy…_  
  
“Dean, what’s wrong? Is something going on? Why are you—”  
  
“It’s nothing, Sam, okay? It’s nothing, everything’s fine.”  
  
Sam gives him a once over. “Yeah,” he says, hushed. “Right.”  
  
“Look, man, I just thought about it now, okay? And I’ll forget about it once I go out and some pretty local Wilma Flintstone has her eyes on me. So, I thought I’d wake you up, share this vital piece of information with you.” Dean puts on his best mock solemn voice, then grins at Sam, hopeful.  
  
Sam looks confused more than anything else. _No, no._  
  
“Wilma Flintstone?”he asks.  
  
“Yeah!” Dean gives a sharp, cheeky nod. “Feeling like hooking up with a mature lady tonight. You know, someone who knows how to handle a bad boy.” He winks at Sam, adding a click of his tongue and everything. Sam’s eyebrows just rise a little over his sleepy eyes.  
  
 _His sleepy eyes, even brighter now somehow, and Sammy’s got such bright eyes, nothing dark about them, hell, the boy’s face is like a Christmas tree—_  
  
“Wilma Flintstone,” Sam repeats flatly.  
  
“Can’t go around being prejudiced against female cartoon characters, Sammy.” Dean catches himself in the last moment before adding something about Jessica Rabbit.  
  
He looks at Sam’s slack, puzzled little face and feels his own face turn mellow. He smiles again, but it’s different. It hurts. It’s like some of his facial muscles have become rusty. Dean told Cas that he was happy on his own, free without Sam. That he hadn’t had fun for ever. But he didn’t tell him that his features used to know how to mould themselves instantly into this expression that Dean can only feel in the pit of his stomach. (He doesn’t even want to know what he must look like, because he knows sap when he sees it.) His face takes on a life of its own when he looks at his brother.  
  
But this smile? It’s been gone for a while. And that’s the second reason why Dean’s here tonight. His lips tremble with too much emotion; imperceptibly, he hopes.  
  
Sam’s gaze covers his face corner to corner, touches on his chest, moves to his hands, jumps back to Dean's eyes.  
  
And then suddenly Sammy smiles back. Teeth and dimples and everything, his big one, _the proper one, at last._  
  
Dean has never been really good with words. Oh sure, he’s a smartass, he can crack ’em up with the best of them, and then some more. Or a quick chat-up line; good one, too, works like a charm—he knows it’s not only because he’s such a handsome devil. Wisecracking, bring it on—Dean’s given a piece of his mind to demons and angels alike, and he’s seen them stop and take notice at his colourful turn of phrase. It’s not just the attitude—you gotta fill a gun with the right shots. Yes, Dean knows his strengths, and waxing lyrical ain’t one of them.  
  
That’s why Sammy smiles at him and bam—a meadow. That’s all Dean’s got. A meadow all around him, in his head, in his gut.  
  
He swallows hard, keeps smiling back, his eyes locked with Sammy’s. He can’t look away, because this, _this_ is why he’s here.  
  
“Okay,” Sam says, whispers more like it. “Can I go back to sleep now?”  
  
“You do that, Sammy,” Dean says.  
  
At the door he turns his head and speaks over his shoulder. “Hey?”  
  
“Yeah,” floats from the bed.  
  
“Let’s not mention this conversation, okay? It was awkward; I don’t want to have to relive it.”  
  
“Sure,” Sam says softly, so brazenly, so unmistakably kind. Dean clenches his jaw, feels the tightness move down the tendons of his neck, down his back. He slips out of the room before his feet get cemented there.  
  
***  
  
Cas doesn’t say a word until they’re back right outside the motel door in Dean’s present. Dean thinks that angels might be crap at understanding humans, but Castiel’s not your ordinary, run of the mill angel.  
  
“Thanks, Cas,” Dean says, squeezing his shoulder. His hand is on the door handle when Cas speaks behind his back.  
  
“Was the trip helpful?”  
  
Dean considers, head bowed.  
  
“Are you all right, Dean?” Cas asks for the second time tonight, his tone betraying the patience of someone who’s used to waiting for an answer for centuries.  
  
Dean turns his head and meets his eyes. “For tonight,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [](http://thetis.livejournal.com/profile)[**thetis**](http://thetis.livejournal.com/) for her beta help. Original entry at my Livejournal [over here](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/71332.html).


End file.
